The Details
by BookishPower
Summary: The details of Hermione's life loom rather large as war threatens. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

When Hermione climbs into the backseat for the drive home that last summer, her mother knows that something's wrong. Helen Granger is used to prepping herself with aspirin tablets on the ride to the station before listening to her daughter's latest adventures in the wizarding world, but finds she's not so much in need of them on this trip.

Hermione first gives them a rundown on her friends - both Harry and Ron were fine, stars on the Quidditch team, dating girls in their House. Helen's a little sorry to hear about that - she'd quietly hoped that her daughter would fall for the scruffy-haired boy with the strange scar on his forehead. The gangly Ron she's less approving of, and of course, that's the one that Hermione seems to be more inclined to. At least Ron broke it off with the other girl, she intuits.

Her exams follow after that - subjects that Helen tries to understand, but more often than not, just nods her head and smiles. Helen expected this, though - at some point, she knew her daughter was brilliant enough to take on subject matter far above Helen's head. Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Defense Against the Dark Arts - certainly not what she expected her to study, though.

When Professor McGonagall had arrived at their doorstep with news of what Hermione actually was, she imagined her daughter's life as a misty sort of fairy tale, learning to enchant mops and chairs, brewing up potions in her cauldron. Instead, Hermione is learning how to defend herself against vampires, has befriended a half-giant, and, just last summer, finally admitted with a quiet sort of pride that she can immobilize and stun a wizard from a good distance.

After this initial exposition, though, Hermione seems to deflate, slumped against the car door, half-listening to her father's diatribe on his presentation to the Dental Professionals Association. Helen catches glimpses of her daughter in the rearview window. She doesn't look relaxed, just keeps scanning the skyline while making the appropriate noises.

"Hermione, dear, are you all right?" Helen turns around in her seat to face her daughter, and that's when it hits her. Hermione is no longer a girl - she's become a young woman. Always more mature than most, her eyes carry more weight than Helen can remember being normal for her age.

Those eyes now dart away, return to her mother well-masked - or did she imagine it? "Our headmaster died, Mum," she says quietly. "You remember me talking about Albus Dumbledore. He passed at the end of the year."

Helen remembers the energetic old man with the crooked nose, smiling back at her in Hermione's strange newspapers. "Oh, Hermione. I'm so sorry. How…" she trails off.

Hermione looks to the other side for a split-second, and now Helen knows she isn't imagining things. "In his sleep, Mum. We went to his funeral right before leaving Hogwarts. It was…beautiful."

Helen waits for more details, but Hermione looks down into her lap.

"He was so kind to us," Hector breaks in from the front of the car. "Dubbledore and that Professor McGonagall. Kept thinking they were trying to drag you off into a ruddy cult, Hermione, but he set us right. And look where you are now."

Hermione is silent, and Helen wonders at her daughter's lack of insistence on correct pronunciation.

"He was the greatest wizard I've ever known," she replies quietly. Tears glimmer in her eyes, but they don't spill.

Helen waits for the rest of the details to spill from her Hermione's lips, but they don't come. She's about to press further, when Hector pulls into the garage.

"I'll give you a hand with your trunk, Hermione," he begins, but Hermione springs to action, pops out of the car.

"No need, Dad," she replies, brandishing her wand with a flourish. "The restriction against underage wizardry doesn't apply to me anymore! I can perform as much magic as I want so long as Muggles don't see. Excepting you two, of course."

Helen stands aside as she observes her husband, enthralled, watch their daughter magically lighten and float the trunk up the stairs, Crookshanks unhappily perched on its top.

The fairy tale had ended. Something has happened to her daughter, and she's going to find out what.

Hermione's not sure where to start. It's not like there's a manual out there for how to pack for a magical war or quest.

She'll need a bag, inconspicuous in size, vast in carrying capacity, and light as a feather to carry. They may sell such things in Diagon Alley, but that's no longer the safest of places for persons like herself. Camping gear, she might be able to borrow from the Weasleys. Clothes - she could pack a few for herself and for Harry and Ron, once they'd joined up at the Burrow. Food would present a more difficult challenge - they'd need it fresh, and she probably wouldn't be able to carry an entire grocery worth of non-perishables in something the size of a purse. It's far more important to take the books on Horcruxes - much harder to find those on the way than a few granola bars.

There are other considerations - what books to take? Histories of Hogwarts and of the wizarding world would be best if their intention was to go Horcrux-hunting. Anything that could possibly lead them in the direction of one of the artifacts was a clue to be eliminated or utilized. Unsure of what would be useful, she spends mornings and evenings thumbing through her collections, marking pertinent passages and transcribing them into notes to bring along. Though her access to the Hogwarts library is now unofficially over, Hermione made sure to nick several volumes from the library, along with Professor Dumbledore's collection - Madame Pince will be horrified if she ever finds out.

Digging into her savings account, she also makes quick work in beginning a large batch of Polyjuice potion - her father complains about the smell until she conjures a fan to blow the offending clouds out a window. She passes it off as a project for Potions class, and even promises to let her parents try a sip. Unable to explain more potions, she decides just to send away for several options to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes (getting an earful from the twins in letter form). Transfiguring her hair blonde and changing a few facial features, she apparates quickly one evening to Hippocrates Dungo Chemist's Shop in Diagon Alley, purchasing the (hopefully unnecessary) medical supplies from the dizzy old pharmacist himself.

Finally, she practices her spellwork like a madwoman, accidentally tearing up one of her mother's rosebushes with a Stinging Hex, Stunning insects in mid-flight, and even daring to try the Imperius Curse on a few unlucky beetles. She'd succeeded in commanding them to waltz across the garden stoop before the disgust at her own actions takes over, and she releases the curse, feeding them a bit of banana as an apology.

More than once, she thumbs over the materials for a Calming Concoction, her anxiety rising up and claiming her from dawn to dusk. Her dreams are troubled, and more than anything, she wishes she could talk to someone frankly about what's going on.

Her mother watches her with a furrow in her brow, concerned. Hermione has always confided in her, even the things she thought her mother would never really understand. Thing is, stress for exams at Hogwarts is the same as it would have been anywhere else. Trouble with friends? The same. Her mother always knew.

And now, she can't.

Hermione digs her fingernail into the page beside the Calming Concoction, drawing a small groove in the page down the list of ingredients.

The strain is becoming noticeable, and she snaps at herself to look like the old Hermione. The Hermione who would recite magical history for her parents to hear their wonderment at the thought of goblin battles and duels of witchcraft actually happening, who would share moving pictures of her friends and in the Daily Prophet for their perusal. She's part of a strange world that they have always thought harmless and whimsical, and now she needs to block the harsh realities of that world from them.

Late at night (more like early in the morning), Crookshanks nuzzles into the small of her back as she stares at the window, looking blankly at the full moon. Somewhere, she knows, Lupin is docile and maybe curled up in the same way beside a contented, pink-haired Tonks, and the thought makes her smile. Just as quickly, though, her mind wanders to thoughts of Fenrir Greyback, and what he must be doing right now.

She leaps out of bed. She has details to attend to.


	2. Chapter 2

An odd feeling wakes Helen Granger that morning, and she rustles around a moment for her dressing gown. Loosely belting it, she pads into the kitchen to brew that first cup of coffee - and the last of the day, after reading that report on acid erosion.

Finally able to practice magic in front of her parents, Hermione had kept them entertained with endless requests for transfiguration and charm-work. Tea was a lively affair, with bouncing sugar cubes, teacups that sprouted legs and dashed across the table, and crowned by Hermione's successful transformation of the kettle into a turtle, who stood up on his hind legs and shrilly whistled "God Save the Queen."

Helen couldn't deny that there were definite advantages to having a witch in the household. Hermione's charms could wash the dishes, clean the floors, and even repair broken items. Charming more complex Muggle machines - like the coffeemaker - required a level of ability that Hermione admitted she wasn't quite up to yet, and probably were illegal anyway. She reminded them of the sweet Mr. Weasley who enchanted cars to fly in his off-time and was later fined - and nearly lost his job.

So, unaided by magic, Helen stands at the coffeemaker and presses down the button, waiting impatiently by the window, gazing out into the little garden. The rosebush is waving madly - did Hermione accidentally enchant it when she tried to repair her spell damage?

But no. Something's out there…moving in the bushes. Helen's finger slips off of the coffeemaker as she crosses to the door. Pulling her dressing gown closer about her, she cracks open the door.

"Hello? Is someone out there?"

The bush goes still for a moment, then a figure steps forward, pushing back the branches, walking towards the house.

"Hermione, what are you doing out there?"

"Hi, Mum." Her usually immaculate daughter's white dressing gown is mud-smeared, and there are small twigs and leaves stuck in her rumpled hair, withered rose petals clinging to her shoulders. The wand - Hermione's third hand, Helen thought to herself - was clasped lightly to her palm. She straightened, and attempted to clean herself up. Helen stepped lightly down the stoop to touch her daughter's face, comb out some of the branches, reduce some of her daughter's resemblance to Ophelia. "What were you doing, dear?"

"Setting up wards," Hermione replies, and despite her daughter's odd behavior, despite the fact that wards don't sound like a good thing, this is the first time Hermione has talked to her this summer like she used to - as if she's explaining a project, and not hiding anything. "They'll chirp like a demented flock of canaries if an intruder comes onto the property. Anyone that we don't admit into the home won't be able to get in without us knowing."

"You got up at five-thirty in the morning to do this?"

Hermione shifts, and the moment of honesty passes in her daughter's face. Helen's been her mother for nearly eighteen years - she knows. "I had some bad dreams last night. There's word in the Wizarding world that a few of the werewolves that don't want to be part of society have been on the prowl."

"Around here?" The thought sends a chill up Helen's spine. She's only seen pictures in her daughter's textbooks, but nothing is impossible now. Helen once spent an entire session fitting plastic molds between the molars of an eight-year-old as they watched The Little Mermaid. All she could think about was whether or not mermaids were real. (They were, Hermione said, but you wouldn't want one to sing to you.)

"No, Mum. I'm just trying to be safe. But if it happens, you and Dad find me, and I'll Apparate us all out to a safe area."

"Apparate?"

"How wizards and witches usually travel. Here, I'll show you."

And with a quick look around to make sure no one's watching, Hermione flicks her wand and disappears, only to reappear a moment later, with a popping sound, beside the garden shed.

Helen's jaw drops, but not from the incredulity of the action. It's one thing to see her daughter charm teakettles and recite the history of Elvish wars. It's quite another to see how powerful she's become.

"I thought you had…brooms," she chokes out. Brooms, trains, buses, and Floo Powder - how many ways did they need to get around? Helen used to feel so knowledgeable and successful - lead practitioner at her clinic, top of her class, raising a daughter who bordered on genius. In trying to understand her daughter's world, however, bring it into terms that she could equate with the one she shared with Hector, she's so often adrift and at sea - helpless.

"We do, but I'm not good on a broomstick. Harry and Ron tried to teach me, but I just get too nervous at the heights," Hermione replied, walking briskly back, examining her closely. Helen knows that Hermione knows she's been thrown for a loop - but she's willing to bet her daughter doesn't know why.

"I can travel that way if I have to, but I really do hate it. Even flying on thestrals and hippogriffs isn't exactly pleasant. This is much nicer." Hermione reaches her mother, and begins brushing the rose petals from her shoulders. "Anyway, all I have to do is a Side-Along, and someone who can't apparate can travel with me."

"It's like your…driving exam," Helen finishes.

"Yes," Hermione smiles. "Anyway, the whole wards thing? Just me taking too many precautions. I also needed to harvest some rose-petal dew." She holds out a glass vial, in which a small amount of liquid quivers.

She's not being entirely truthful, and Helen can tell. Hermione is already scanning the edge of the garden, and Helen can see that she's wondering what she's forgotten. It's a familiar expression.

"Hermione, if a werewolf did attack, could you fight him?"

The question catches Hermione off-guard, but Helen watches her recover.

"Oh yes, Mum. The only competent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we ever had was a werewolf - a good one, Professor Lupin. If one came in, I could use a Stunning Spell on him, at least to knock him back far enough so that we could Apparate out of there quickly."

Helen nods, taking this in. Then, the question trips out of her mouth, startling even her. "Would you have to kill him?"

Hermione turns pale, and Helen instantly regrets the question. But she wants to know - can her daughter raise her little wand and dispense death? Most parents would say no, but Helen knows her daughter better than this. If cornered, Hermione will fight her way out. If her friends were in trouble, Hermione never missed a beat in standing up for them. She would kill if she had to. Helen is actually glad of this.

"There's a Killing Curse," Hermione replies quietly. "I know how to do it, but I've never done it before. I don't want to do it ever. I prefer just jinxing someone, or paralyzing them. Then I'd do a Memory Charm so that they couldn't remember why they were after me in the first place."

Helen reaches out and enfolds her daughter in a wordless embrace. She's still so very small.

Because her mother isn't exactly comfortable with enchanted knives in the house, Hermione takes the initiative, chopping celery and carrots to fry in the skillet. Beside her on the counter, a crackling radio plays. She's not really listening to the Spice Girls crooning "Wannabe." She's waiting.

She wishes she'd thought of it earlier this morning, but she was so involved in getting the new potion started, she didn't contact Mr. Weasley till later this afternoon. She also wishes she knew what form it would take, so she could give her parents warning. Then again, some warning was better than none.

"Mum, Dad?" They look up at her, smiling, each sprawled in an easy chair reading. "I'm practicing a new form of communication with other wizards, so don't be startled if something silver bounds in."

"Something silver?" Her father smiles, a bit boyishly. To him, the Wizarding world is one wonder after another - no dark spots. She can slide past him easily. Mum's not so easily fooled, though, and since this morning, Hermione wonders how much her mother knows - if she's been talking to Mr. Weasley via owl.

"A Patronus Charm," Hermione explains, choosing her definition with care. "Sometimes, if you need to send a message, but you don't want anyone else to read it, you send a Patronus with your message. Of course, you're gambling on the possibility that the person you're sending the message to is in the presence of someone you don't want hearing the message, but it's a little more secure."

"It's silver?"

Hermione backs up. "Everyone's looks different, but they're all animals. When you learn to cast a Patronus, it can take the form of an animal that's important to you. Something that has special meaning. I don't know what form Mr. Weasley's takes, so I didn't want you to take fright if a silver elephant or something runs through the living room."

Dad smiles. "What form does yours take?"

"An otter. It's quite playful."

"An otter, you say?" Hector Granger lifts an eyebrow and looks significantly at Helen Granger. "What's that say, dear?"

Hermione watches her mother fold her book against her stomach and look up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

"An otter," she said quietly. "Very favorable among the Celts. A strong protector who helps others gain wisdom, who finds inner treasures or talents, faithfulness, and can recover from any crisis." Her gaze fixes suddenly and sharply on Hermione, who feels exactly as she did as a naughty six-year-old girl. "They mean that you should enjoy life instead of enduring it."

"And that, Hermione," her father says fondly from his slumped position, "is where you get your head for detail."

Mum smiles at him fondly. Hermione's still watching her mother, wondering if she knows.

"Anyway, I'm putting the vegetables in. Dinner should be ready in an hour or so."

But as she speaks, a small ball of silver light appears in the living room. Both of Hermione's parents jump, but look up in interest. Hermione's wand is already out reflexively, though she thinks she can pass it off as a necessary gesture for the little Patronus.

The silver blob moves, revealing the form of a dignified little weasel, who stands up on its hind legs to look at Hermione.

"Hello there, Hermione!" it cries out in Arthur Weasley's jolly voice. "I'm happy to practice talking Patronuses with you any time. Just remember to call your Patronus over to you, give the message like you're talking to that person, and say Expeditus Patronus - and then the name of the person you want it to go to. Send me one back to see if you've got the hang of it. Incidentally, are you coming to our little event soon? Molly and the kids are looking forward to seeing you!"

The little speech done, the weasel bows slightly, before vanishing as its silvery body into evaporating mist.

"Well!" her mother exclaims into the empty air. "There's something you don't see every day."

"I like that Weasley bloke," her father adds, grinning from the couch.

"What event did he mean, Hermione?" her mother asks. Something in Hermione wilts - she'd hoped her mother wouldn't pick up on that.

"One of Ron's older brothers is getting married in a few weeks," she said carefully. "Since I'm a friend of the family, they've invited me over. I think Mrs. Weasley wants some help with the preparations, too."

"Ah." Hermione sees a speculative glint in her mother's eye. "We'll have to get you a new dress, you know."

"Oh, Mum, I don't…"

"Don't 'oh Mum' me," Helen smiles. "Your old dress robes won't do for a wedding. We'll get you all fitted out this weekend. Tottenham Court Road. What do you say?"

"All right," Hermione gives up the fight before it begins. "No arguing about the cleavage, though."

"Can't hear you!" her father pipes up, holding his paperback to one of his ears.

"Right," Helen smirks at her husband. "No arguing." She pauses, with a look that catches Hermione off guard. It's almost challenging, in a way. "Aren't you going to Patronum Mr. Weasley back?"

Hermione bites back the reply that a private message is meant to be private, and regains a grip on her wand. She searches her memory - this is always a challenge. She can perform the charm all right, but it's difficult to remember a really good moment that isn't tinged with sorrow or regret in some way when one is facing down a fight with dementors. It's even more difficult when her mother is staring at her, trying to figure out what she might have wanted to have a quiet word with one of the Weasleys about. Particularly when she did want to ask for some advice that she couldn't in front of them.

Inside her, like an inflated ball rushing up through water, comes the feeling of absolute elation in her first year at Hogwarts. The morning after their fight with the mountain troll, when Harry motioned her to sit by them at breakfast, when Ron tossed her a roll with casual ease, as if she'd always been there. She'll remember that feeling of acceptance within her like a golden bubble forever.

"Expecto Patronum!" It bursts out of her, with unaccustomed vigor, and the little otter wafts into being, swimming through the air in circles around her. It's a strong one - she can feel the glowing warmth of it built from her memories. Before her parents' wide-eyed expressions, she gestures the Patronus towards her, and it bobs over willingly.

"Hello Mr. Weasely!" she says to the otter. "Thank you for practicing the Patronus message with me - I think it will be very useful. I also have an interest in some of the charms you use every day in your job, and I might be looking for a bit more information on one. And yes, I'll certainly be at Bill and Fleur's wedding! Please give my love to everyone! Expeditus Patronum - Arthur Weasely!" she finished.

The otter turned a backflip, then swam off speedily in the direction that Mr. Weasley's Patronus had come from.

"All right, then," Hermione said, holding her mother's eyes for a moment. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."

Hermione returns to the kitchen stiffly, scoops up the vegetables, and begins to cook them in a little olive oil, cracked pepper, and dill. She thinks about the second cauldron steaming above her head, the new potion bubbling merrily beside the vat of Polyjuice she's cooking up. Once the moon comes up again tonight, she'll have to pour it into a bag and stuff it in the back of the refrigerator to freeze, praying that neither of her parents will find it.

Beside her on the counter, the radio chimes the top of the hour as the news program comes on. Hermione continues to stir the vegetables with a wooden spoon, listening carefully. There's almost no point in reading The Daily Prophet anymore.

"Breaking news here in London - a grisly scene is unfolding as police discover five people dead in a Norbiton apartment. No official reports have been released yet, but an officer speaking on conditions of anonymity reported that the scene bore all the marks of a ritualistic murder and the possible use of explosives…"

Hermione reaches over and shuts off the radio.

She looks over at her parents, nose-deep in their books, and makes a decision.


	3. Chapter 3

Normally, it takes a day's worth of arguments to draw Hermione out on a clothes-shopping expedition, but she's uncharacteristically docile. They take the Tube over to Tottenham Court Street, selecting a few random women's clothing shops.

As they examine the more formal wear, Helen observes that Hermione isn't very interested in actually shopping. As she chatters on about studies, talking only in the broadest of terms while they're out among Muggles (a term Helen has some trouble accepting), her daughter is really doing her best to keep them in the backs of stores that they enter, keeping one eye to the windows.

Was she afraid of running into someone here?

Hermione has an inordinate fondness for blue, and it's a good shade on her, Helen thinks. Unfortunately, she's ignoring several fetching dresses because of this. That's what she's here for - pulling her daughter back from any unwise decisions. A good thing, too - Hermione'd been set to go on an A-line gown that did nothing for her figure.

"Hermione, dear, you've got such a lovely figure," she tells her patiently, watching her daughter evaluate herself in the dressing-room mirror, noting with dismay that her daughter's wand is sticking out of her purse. "Don't be afraid to show it off."

"I'm just trying to think about what's appropriate at a wedding." Hermione fusses with the sleeves of the citrus-colored dress she's wearing, completely unsuitable for her complexion. "I don't want to show too much. Most of the people there will be wearing dress robes."

Helen feels her patience begin to slip. "Should we go to Diagon Alley, then?"

"No," Hermione pouts at her image in the mirror, the resemblance to a five-year-old more present than ever, in Helen's eyes. "I'm Muggle-born, and I want to emphasize it there."

"I don't know exactly what's appropriate where you're going," Helen replies, obligingly using their euphemisms for the Wizarding world in public. She finds the term Muggle slightly offensive, even on her daughter's lips. Couldn't they just say non-magical folk? And why did Hermione want to make a stand instead of blending into the crowd of wizards and witches? "I do know, however, that that dress makes you look like a cream puff."

Hermione's face drops, and Helen raises it with a finger under her chin. "Get this thing off," she said, unzipping and unbuttoning the fastenings, helping her step out of it without crushing the stiff crinoline under the skirt. Hermione immediately reached for the next one on the hook, a pale blue number, but Helen seizes her daughter by the shoulders and turns her to face the mirror in her underthings.

"Look at yourself," she says, touching her daughter's waist, feeling the unnerving presence of ribs pressing against her skin. "Hourglass figure. Gorgeous skin. Beautiful teeth. Legs that go on forever. Hair that's gotten heavy enough to stop being bushy and run more to curls." She pauses, nudges her daughter in the shoulder. "A chest that makes more than one fellow stammer."

"Mo-om!"

She smacks her daughter on the arse lightly. "Let me pick one. No, trust me, and see what I mean."

Helen steps out of the dressing room quietly, glances around the racks of gowns for cocktail parties, teas, formal occasions. She's swimming in a sea of jewel-toned chiffon, satin, silks, trying to picture her daughter in one of them. Some girls would look at this like a feast - to Hermione, she knows, it's intimidating.

Her eyes catch on a fetching little gown the color of spring violets. Floaty material, a subtle amount of cleavage, an emphasis on the waist - not witch material.

Helen's fingers pause while fingering the fabric. Witch. My daughter's a witch. It was easier, she knew, to think of Hermione as a skilled conjuror, an enchanter, a potions-brewer, charming in more than one sense. The word witch carried so much other weight. There were subtle politics around this going on in Hermione's world, she knew - but she had a funny feeling that Hermione was concealing the extent to which these politics affected her.

She should really write to the Headmaster - but then she remembers that he's passed. Hermione hasn't said another word about it since she came home. Helen hadn't realized until recently how limited her access was to her daughter's world, and just how much Hermione was going it alone.

Checking the size on the tag, she brings it back to the dressing room. Hermione's face goes a bit rigid.

"Mum, you know I'm hopeless in purple."

"This isn't purple," Helen said relentlessly. "It's lavender."

Something about statement this catches her daughter's attention, sharpens her focus, and she lets Helen help her don the gown without complaint. Helen smoothes the fabric around her daughter's waist, then stands back to admire the effect, hand over her heart and smiling at how well Hermione has blossomed out.

Hermione cracks an odd smile at her own reflection. "Too subtle for him to get the message. I wonder if that's a good thing or not."

Helen decides not to ask. There are too many mysteries about her daughter nowadays.

Sometimes, sitting alone in bed at night, poring over the charm again and again, Hermione wishes she could talk to Draco Malfoy.

Not that she thinks they'd get very far in conversation. Even without the whole Pureblood-Mudblood caste issue hanging between them, they're both very stubborn people, and it would take a lot to drag any worthwhile conversation out of him. Like a good Potions experiment, though, she wonders what he would be like to really argue with. He's quick with a retort, she's good with a parry and thrust, they're both at the top of their class - if they could refrain from name-calling, he might actually have something interesting to say about this.

Oddly enough, of all the people at Hogwarts, he's the one whose situation she can most relate to. The few other Muggle-born students have mostly been able to get themselves and their families out of the way, convinced that the danger posed by Voldemort is real and will come for them. Others, with pureblooded or half-blooded families will be aware of the danger and have taken their own precautions and defenses.

Hermione's parents still regard the Wizarding world as not particularly powerful. Those troubles were far away, belonged to other people, wouldn't reach them. She knew they felt they could still protect her from most things.

Draco's parents walked right into the heart of that danger, thought they would be safe under the wing of the dragon, would in turn protect their son. Voldemort turned right around and held their lives hostage to their son's efforts. Believing that they could always stay on the winning side of history, they'd doomed their son to a terrible choice in order to protect his family.

Hermione remembers the desperation in those keen grey eyes during the last year, the circles bagging the normally taut lines of his face. She hadn't believed Harry's theories, but she could tell that something heavy was weighing on Draco, so much so that he forgot to be horrid to her - not that he was ever nice to begin with. Still, she could see the new maturity in his eyes as he knifed, shark-like, through the throngs of students at Hogwarts. She looks in the mirror some mornings and sees the echo of Draco's struggle etched in her own face. Can I do this to protect them?

He tried. Got all the way to the very moment…then could go no further. Even to save himself and his family, Draco Malfoy could not become a murderer.

She wonders what he's doing now. Have they tattooed him? Is he helping to kill innocents - willingly or not? She wonders if he's as frightened as she is - and realizes that he is, and probably more so.

Can she do this? Can she afford not to?

The specter of Gilderoy Lockhart haunts her waking hours. Smiling vacantly, signing autographs to those visiting St. Mungo's, as if the motion was so locked in his muscles that even his blank brain could remember it, he was without a hope of remembering who he used to be. The family whose memories had been obliterated for the Quidditch Cup, muttering vaguely about Christmas after so many charms had been performed on them. Hermione shuddered at the casual regard those in charge had had for the disrupted lives of the Muggles.

It can go so horribly, horribly wrong. She needs laser precision with this charm, not the usual regard for Muggles' lives, routinely given with all the meticulousness of a shotgun blast. So many intricate details, so little time to understand the web they create. She thinks of Malfoy creeping about Hogwarts, marshalling all his thoughts, all his concentration, trying to hold his family together.

Malfoy was never aiming at Dumbledore, she knows. He was aiming at that outer darkness, trying to destroy the possibility of a world without the people he loved in it. She knows that desperation, though she imagines his protracted suffering, living with that explicit threat over his parents.

She can't bear to do this to them, to rob her parents of what is so intrinsically a part of them - what makes up their very selves. They'd always been a unit of three as long as she could remember - Mum, Dad, and Hermione. Now she must make the break complete, in order that they can all continue on.

Her friendship with Harry is the big strike against them - otherwise, they could possibly scoot by, unnoticed. Thanks to Rita Skeeter (though she doesn't doubt that the Death Eaters would miss this detail even without Skeeter's help), her association with him is well-known. Where she is, he is certainly somewhere nearby. Hermione does not regret her friendship with Harry in the least - knows that she needs him as much as he needs her. It does, however, mark her with a bullseye - and those she loves. Just as Malfoy had been marked by his parents - his father, most likely.

Even without Harry's friendship, The Daily Prophet is beginning to hint at dark things in store for Muggle-born witches and wizards. Hermione's knows - if Voldemort gets control of the Ministry, the Muggle-borns will be systematically rounded up. Hermione would have had to deal with this sooner or later, and if she's going to go off Horcrux-hunting with Harry and Ron, she needs to do this soon.

She imagines Malfoy's derisive look, an effective mask for the scared young man inside. Hermione knows that he'd find some variation on an insult of just how stupid she could be for a smart girl. A snarl and sneer for the girl who had it so easy, who didn't have to kill to keep her parents alive - just had to kill (temporarily, she prays) the people that they were.

She can almost picture his face, thinking of him for the first time as a young man. He's fought so hard to establish the boundaries between the two of them, and she's fought so hard to prove him wrong - it's hard to think of him as a young man, just as she is a young woman.

Hermione's thoughts break off as a flash of silvery white light surges toward the house. She fumbles for her wand on the nightstand before realizing that it is a lynx Patronus - belonging to one Kingsley Shacklebolt. A bit embarrassed, even though it makes no difference to the Patronus, Hermione raises the quilt over her to her shoulders as it approaches.

The lynx drifts through the walls to the foot of her bed, where it perches regally, looking at her. Crookshanks hisses at the intruder and leaps off of the bed. Hermione has only time enough to cast a quick Muffliato before the Patronus begins to speak.

"Good evening, Miss Granger. I have been informed that you wish to help the Order transport Mr. Potter to a safe house before his birthday -" when Harry's veil of protection would run out, she knew - "It is extremely likely that someone will be killed in this attempt, and I wish you to know the risk you will be running. Ronald Weasley informs me that you are more confident upon a thestral than a broomstick, so this will be our mode of transport from the Dursley household to the safe house. Please be at the Burrow by noon on July 25. Please reply via Patronus - Arthur informs me that you are quite good at it."

With that, the Patronus abruptly vanished. Crookshanks returned to paw at the diminishing vapor until he lost interest.

Hermione searched once more for a good memory - she wasn't sure if thinking about the same memory each time would diminish its joy, and therefore its power. She steps away from the Wizarding world in her thoughts, recalls scuba diving as a child with her mother and father beside her, heart racing in joy at seeing the bizarre creatures beneath the sea. Good enough.

"Expecto Patronum!" she calls out, watching her Patronus take shape, winding and bobbing through the air in a transport of joy. Crookshanks, more used to this apparition, watches intently with his bright little eyes.

She summons the Patronus forward. "Good evening, Mr. Shacklebolt. I understand the risks, and I am ready to help the Order. Thank you for agreeing to my use of a thestral. I will be at the Burrow on the appointed date. Expeditus Patronum - Kingsley Shacklebolt!"

The Patronus speeds off, and Hermione decides that talking herself into sleep is no good - she's got details to take care of. The list that's sat in her bedside stand is pulled once more into her lap - so many things she's got to make minute changes to, and can't afford to leave out.

Getting up from where she sits stiffly on the bed, Hermione catches a glimpse of herself darkly in the mirror, could swear she sees a pair of grey eyes glittering with resolve and fear behind her. There really is no choice, she knows, and spares a brief hope that Malfoy manages to take his family and leap clear of all this mess in the end.

Hermione, however, now has a deadline.


	4. Chapter 4

Three root canals, five extractions, and one implant later, Helen's mood is, at best, cranky. At worst, she's downright foul. She races an evening thunderstorm home, managing to stay ahead of the violent blue-black clouds before pulling into their drive. 

At least, she thinks, as she walks up to the front door, thunder grumbling behind her, Hermione's home to do the evening cooking. The clouds have darkened the summer sky enough for her daughter to flick on a light in the kitchen, where she stands silhouetted in the window. 

Helen expects the usual scene when she walks in the front door - Hermione absently stirring a skillet on the stove while all her attention remained focused on the new schoolbook open on the counter. It's mostly the same - Hermione's pouring a cup of extra broth into beef and barley stew. She can smell fresh bread baking in the oven. There's a book full of unfamiliar characters open on the counter. 

Hermione's attention, however, is fixed on the storm clouds outside. She scans the sky as if waiting for an air raid. Helen realizes that the book on the counter is marked not with a scrap of paper, but with Hermione's wand. 

"Hi, Mum," Hermione greets her, expression softening a bit. "How was work today?" 

"Ugh." 

"That bad?" Hermione gives a half-smile, something she'd inherited from Helen herself. It's unnerving sometimes, Helen thinks, to see a younger person - who looks so much like yourself - take on your own gestures. 

"It's not so much the surgery - it's the explanations," she spat, setting down her purse. "I swear I've been flossing - but I've been brushing three times a day!" Helen glances outside, sees that the clouds have caught up with her, and that the rain isn't too far behind. Under the guise of looking out the window, she continues. "It's the people who can look you in the face and tell you that everything is fine - they don't understand why I keep insisting that it's not." 

Out of the corner of her eye, Helen sees Hermione, whose attention had drifted back to the thunderstorm, jerk a little at her words, as if shocked with static electricity. It's the confirmation she's been looking for. She doesn't pursue it, though. Not yet. 

A clap of thunder makes them both start, and Hermione peers hard out the window, wooden spoon motionless in her hand. 

Helen steps closer, rubbing her neck to unknot it. "Smells good, dear. Now you know why I always look forward to you coming home for the summer." 

Hermione smiles, forced to look away from the window. "Not the only reason, I hope." 

"Hardly." Helen slips the spoon away from her daughter's fingers, tastes the soup. "Excellent. Oh, speaking of, are you going to stay at the Weasley's house until the start of term?" 

"I was thinking so," Hermione said in a measured voice. "Usual summer routine. Why?" 

"Your father and I were thinking - we've got some vacation time coming up, and we could do a bit of traveling once you're back from the Weasley wedding. Someplace fun, you know, like Australia. You love scuba diving so much - we could check out the Great Barrier Reef." 

Hermione's about to answer, but a bright bluish flicker of light across their faces jerks her attention back to the window. She moves like a cat, hand shooting out for her wand, spine stiffening and looking wildly in every direction through the window. 

"Mum, get down!" she hisses. Helen drops like a stone to the floor, heart in her mouth. She's vaguely aware of the irony of the situation - child protecting parent, rather than vice-versa. Helen's only power here, though, is as a distraction or as a human shield. 

Hermione's the powerful one. And there she was, hunched down and scrambling to her mother's side. "If it's them, we'll do a Side-By-Side Apparition, and I'll get you to the Burrow, then I'll get Dad from work." she whispers. 

"If it's who?" Helen breathes out in a whisper of nameless terror. 

A moment later, a shuddering grumble of thunder breaks across the tension in the kitchen. Crookshanks strolls lazily across the floor to his water bowl, looking at them with interest. 

Hermione rises from her crouch, face pale and strained. She looks this way and that, wand outstretched in front of her the way opera players hold their prop guns. 

Another flicker of light, but this time, immediately followed by a bark of thunder. Hermione's shoulders relax infinitesimally, the sight a welcome one to Helen. 

"It's okay, I think," Hermione said meekly, from her position at the window. "Just lightning." 

Helen rises to her feet, and feels her anger whipping up, the result of a month of unspoken tension and the awful day she's had so far. It's one thing for a daughter to pull away and get her own life as she approaches adulthood. It's quite another to realize that she's in fear of her life and crouching in the kitchen because of a few jets of light. 

Hermione's trying not to meet her eyes, lamely stirring the soup, looking for all the world like a guilty kindergarten student. 

Helen reaches over, snatches the spoon from her hand, and lays it on the counter between them. She pulls up her daughter's chin with a finger, looks deep into an unspoken fear. 

"I've been waiting a month for an explanation," she says quietly, evenly. "I want one. Now, please, Hermione." 

Hermione swallows convulsively, and switches off the stove, then bends to pull the bread from the oven. Without a word, she sits down at the dining table. Helen follows, sitting across from her. She opens her mouth, but it looks to Helen as if she's choking on the words. 

"Are you in trouble?" Helen asks, reaching out to squeeze her daughter's hand. "What can we do?" 

Hermione draws in a deep breath, then faces Helen squarely. Rather more like a soldier giving a report than a daughter answering to her mother, Helen thinks absently. 

"I've left some things out…because I thought they would worry you," Hermione begins, then stops at her mother's look. "Also, because I wasn't sure whether or not you and Dad would try to pull me out of Hogwarts." 

That's a more truthful answer, and Helen gestures for her to continue. 

"In the Wizarding world, people like me are kind of looked down upon by some," she begins, and Helen can see her searching for the right words. "Being Muggle-born…some wizards and witches think people like me shouldn't practice magic…that we're not as deserving as Purebloods." 

"I remember you saying something about that," Helen says. She'd passed it off as ridiculous at the time - how could a group of people be so concerned with such petty differences when they had essential power over the rest of the globe? 

"Well, the sentiment in some places is getting stronger," Hermione replies. "Some say that we should have our wands taken away - others say we should be imprisoned. Some say worse." 

_Some say worse…_ Helen's mind takes a sudden leap of intuition. 

"Your headmaster - Dumbledore - was he murdered because of this?" she breathes out. 

"No, Mum," Hermione says quietly. "Dumbledore wasn't murdered, and if he was, they're keeping a pretty tight seal on it. I have contacts with Aurors - wizard police - because I'm Muggle-born. They do a good job of letting us know where is safe, and where isn't." 

"You're not safe here?" Helen squeaks out. 

"I don't know," Hermione replies, fiddling with her wand. "I think I'm safe, so long as Rufus Scrimgeour stays in power. If there's a coup, however, the Aurors will notify me and I'll Apparate to one of their safe houses." Raising her wand, she drew a flaming circle in midair, before making a picture of a leonine man appear in the center of it, blocking Hermione's face. "The Aurors tell me that they wouldn't bother you, though. Most don't think Muggles are intelligent enough to tell time, let alone where I would Apparate to. They wouldn't flinch at hurting you if you were standing between me and them, so I've also put a special ward on this house - if Dark magic is performed here - it alerts the Aurors." 

Helen's mind is racing, trying to keep up with each leaden revelation that comes from Hermione's lips. Her daughter, an outcast in the Wizarding world, on the run from (racist or classist - she couldn't decide which) murderers. 

As Hermione pauses to listen, checking over her shoulder, Helen can hear the violent rapping of rain on the rooftop, as the storm breaks above them. 

"I don't think there will be a coup, though," Hermione adds, breaking the quiet, and touching the circle with her wand so that it disappeared, and she faced Helen once again. "Scrimgeour's a stronger Minister of Magic than Fudge ever was. He's actively hunting down the criminals. And there's no safer place than Hogwarts." 

"Will Molly Weasley take you today?" Helen sputters out. It's all she can think of - find Hermione a safe place to go to. "I mean, they have to be skilled in defense, and you'd be among other witches and wizards…" 

Hermione shook her head. "Kingsley Shacklebolt says not. He's not being reckless - he says that those groups are kind of lying low at the moment. I'll be with the Weasleys from late July till the start of term." 

"Then why have you been so on edge?" Helen manages to get out. "Why are you guarding the house with an alarm system? Why do you take your wand with you whenever we go out in public? Why are you standing guard during a thunderstorm?" 

Thunder rumbles again, making the both of them jump. 

Hermione ticks off each question on her fingers. "I'm on edge since just because there's a low chance doesn't mean there's no possibility - the wards are to let us know if an intruder comes in. I take my wand with me when I go out because I can't guarantee some Pureblood fanatic won't recognize me and take his chances. And…one of their favorite methods is to ride in with a thunderstorm, so they're less detectable. I'm just nervous - like a lot of people right now." 

She spreads her hands, palms down, on the kitchen table, deflating. "Probably nothing will happen, though." 

"You didn't think that this was something I needed to know?" Helen can't help the anger in her voice. 

Hermione hesitates, something like shame in her eyes. "Because there's nothing you can do, Mum," she says. "I'm sorry, but this is something I have to deal with. And I'm working on-" she cuts herself off mid-sentence, but Helen's already made that jump. 

"Are you planning to fight? Are you joining some kind of wizard army?" she seethes, her voice rising to that shrill pitch that even she hated. "What in hell are you doing, Hermione?" 

"I'm standing up for myself, Mum!" Hermione yells back, equaling her voice. "But I'm not joining an army! I'm going back to Hogwarts!" Her voice drops, suddenly and oddly sad. "Mum, you can't follow me there. It's my world, and I've got to fight to defend my place in it. I've got to fight to defend my friends!" 

"Hermione Granger, you might be the brightest witch of your age, but you are still my daughter!" The words sound like they are being ripped from her very soul. "That may be your world, but you're still a part of mine! You always will be! And I've got to defend you!" 

Hermione cracks at this, dissolves into heaving sobs. She gets up unsteadily, swaying like a willow, and flees from the table, stopping only in the kitchen to grab a bag of blue ice from the freezer. 

Helen watches her go, half-certain she should be doing something to comfort Hermione, or to stay calm. But if Hermione is a name on a list of people to be targeted by a bunch of fanatics with lethal wand power, she's not exactly feeling like Mother of the Year. 

A rumble of thunder, receding now, makes her stop, glance out the window for shadowy figures moving through the bushes, unfamiliar people watching from the street. Is this what Hermione does? Is this the fear that she lives with? 

It stuns her growing anger, sends it back down into her toes. She didn't approve, but she could appreciate why. Sort of. Hermione would be going to the Weasley household, just as soon as she could have her arrange it. No matter what this Mr. Shacklebolt thought, Hermione needed to be in a place with more experienced wizards. 

Hermione, Helen realizes, with a sob of her own, needs to be with her own kind. And she can't follow. 

Hermione lets herself sob into the pillow, the release almost an indulgence. She hasn't cried since Dumbledore's funeral. Before these tears can dry up, though, she catches a few in a vial. 

Reduced to the size of a small ice cube, the frozen potion absorbs her collected tears as she pours them on it, then slips the cold concoction into her mouth. It tastes of salt, like the coral reef, brilliant tropical fish gathered in fairy-like schools about her, leathery leaves of seaweed wrapping above her ankle, Mum and Dad swimming protectively on either side of her. 

And then it's gone. 

The potion isn't exactly necessary, but it will make things easier. On her, at least. Possibly on Harry and Ron as well, since it will last as long as she needs it to, and the three of them could be gone for a while. Years, even. 

The ache behind her eyes suddenly releases, and she stops crying. Tearless Tonic - everything one needed to stop emotional weeping - irritant-based tears were still allowed. She can't pause for tears now, nor will she likely be able to in the future. Hermione isn't exactly a soldier, but her work in the near future might well determine a lot of things, and she can't afford this anymore. 

Able to think clearly now, she sits on her bed, Crookshanks purring insistently on her lap. Absently, she strokes his head, calming the both of them. The storm has mostly passed, leaving behind a misting rain. 

It's got to be tonight. Before her mother can go into full panic mode and try to send her to the Burrow for safekeeping. She'll probably tell Dad when he gets home, but that's all right. While she couldn't completely lie her way out of her mother's interrogation, she did manage to keep several things hidden. While Death Eaters wouldn't normally bother with the family of Muggle-borns, they might if they thought her parents had some clue as to where she - and Harry Potter - were. The state of the Ministry is much less stable than she'd said, and Voldemort is gaining power more and more openly with each passing day. 

She pulls out, from under her bed, the sheaf of notes she'd made from books on the subject, along with Mr. Weasley's helpful advice. As someone who performed the charm regularly, she'd gone to him for help, and he'd given her his word that no one would ever know what she'd done. He'd given no indication that he would do this for her, though. She recognizes it as a sign of what she is now - an adult. 

A crazed thought thunders through her brain - why not just give them simple sleeping solutions? Let them fall asleep in the reading room and wake up in the morning as new people. She could even say something that they might carry with them to that moment that she'd find them again - something like, "I love you, and please forgive me for what I'm about to do." 

But they'd turn around and look at her. She'd have to stare into their eyes while she obliterated their memories. She doesn't have the stomach for that. Looking into the eyes of people that she fought and cursed was one thing - looking into the eyes of her parents as she performed that particular charm was quite another. 

Hermione focuses back on her checklist. Once her parents are asleep tonight, she'll move the items in her room out, shrink and put them in storage to go with her parents. She's already removed all traces of herself in the pictures and knick-knacks downstairs - all she need do is remove the glamours over them once this is done. 

Unbeknownst to her parents, she's charmed her way through a sale of the dental partnership. It was tricky, performing Enticement charms on a new pair of dentists to buy out the practice, and equally tricky to Polyjuice herself into her mother and father to sign the contracts at separate times. She'd shown and managed to sell the house (and learned a great deal about real estate that she'd never known and made her more inclined to the Weasley's tent). Befuddlement Charms later on fixed the name change in the computer seamlessly - Hermione doesn't know if Death Eaters can follow a paper trail in the Muggle world, but she'd rather not risk it. 

These spells and decisions frighten her almost as much as the one coming up. She's planned it so that the Grangers will have sold the practice that they worked so hard to build, dropping everything and everyone at once to run halfway around the world. At worst, it's suspicious. At best, it's horribly inconsiderate to her parents and to everyone else in the Muggle world who knows or cares about them. They'll have new identities tomorrow morning, and she can't possibly perform a charm on everyone to call them by their new names. It's got to be quick as possible. 

Hermione also feels guilty about buying a new house for her parents without them knowing. She chose a nice house for them by the ocean in a Sydney suburb, organized several interviews for her parents at local practices. The movers are set to come in the middle of the day and have things cleared out before everyone in the neighborhood comes home from work. The fewer questions, the better. 

She's forgotten the attic, though, and that needs to be dealt with before she can move forward. Coaxing Crookshanks off of her lap, she leaves and climbs up the rickety old ladder into the attic. 

Up here, in the dim light of a lamp, she gathers all the photos she can find with her face smiling back out at the world. Albums from back when her mother had been pregnant and in a bikini, grinning naughtily up at the camera from her sun lounge chair. A flick of her wand, and Helen's abdomen regains its normal proportions. There's the holiday in France - she and Helen stood before a sculpture of Joan of Arc in Paris - then just Helen. A six-year-old Hermione roasts a marshmallow over a fire in the Forest of Dean - now it's just a picture of the fire in front of the tent. 

The creak of a footstep on the ladder warns her, and she hastily pockets her wand, grabs a photo album with the guilty hand. Mentally, she steels herself, expecting their argument to continue. 

Her mother's head pokes above the floorboards. "Hermione?" 

"Hey, Mum." 

Helen Granger climbs the rest of the way into the attic, sits beside her daughter, as they used to, without this wall of silence between them. She glances over at the album, of the years when Hermione was a kindergartner, hair as bushy as ever, proudly holding up one of her first graded papers. 

"That was the year we first began to wonder," she drops quietly into the silence. "You and that bus." 

"I did want to get to the library," Hermione murmurs back. When Hermione was five, she escaped her mother's grip to run out in front of traffic, only to come face-to-face with a bus, blaring its horn. She was never quite sure how she did it - but somehow, that bus jumped up vertically into the air, flying just over her head, before landing neatly on the street behind her and speeding off. 

Helen smiles. "I knew there was something up. More than that bus." 

Hermione doesn't say it. It's the day that Helen began to suspect something was different (wrong?) with her daughter. The day she wondered if Hermione didn't perhaps belong somewhere else. 

"Do you know why I named you Hermione?" 

The question catches her off guard, but Hermione knows this story - they even went to see the play in her honor when a Shakespeare festival enacted an outdoor performance of "The Winter's Tale." She was named for the faithful queen, Dad said, who stayed faithful and true to the people she loved. Hermione had always been disappointed by this assessment of the queen's character - did her father think that she was the kind of person who, with gentle good humor, would put up with an insanely jealous husband who attempted to have her daughter killed? Why didn't the queen fight back? Why did she stay in love with such a horrible man and forgive him the years of separation with her child? 

The bear eating the peasant was funny, though unintentionally so. 

"I know the story, Mum," she smiled up at her peaceably. There was no need to be petulant in the face of this fragile peace. "We even went to see the play, remember?" 

Helen smiles, shakes her head, and kneels to sit beside her on the dusty floor. 

"That's what your father thinks," Helen says, an odd light in her eye, making Hermione frown in confusion. "I love your father, but he's helpless with literary references. I suggested it, and your father went along with it because it rolled so prettily off the tongue." 

She bent to one side, fished out an album bound with a leather cord. Picking loose the cord, she set it in Hermione's lap, thumbing open the thick pages of the album, showing images of her parents' honeymoon in Greece. Her father, looking quite debonair despite his sunburn, attempting to sail a boat on the Aegean. Her mother, radiant in a blue dress, perched on the rubble of some ancient ruins in a hardscrabble country. 

"See that ruin?" Helen asks, pointing to the picture. "That's Sparta. That's where I specifically wanted to go on our trip. I wanted to see the old city of the famous Spartans." 

Bemused, Hermione leaned closer at the image of her parents, some twenty years younger, beaming at the camera while posing beneath the statue of an imposing warrior. 

"Leonidas," she whispers, and sees her mother's approving nod. 

"Yes," she says. "The real Sparta, brutal and terrible and beautiful all at once. But before it belonged to King Leonidas or any of the other warriors, it belonged to Helen…and her daughter, Hermione." 

Hermione isn't completely unfamiliar with this reference - she hadn't paid much attention, believing her name derived from that other Hermione. Helen, most beautiful woman in the world, worthy of the blood of thousands of warriors - and her daughter. 

"You know something of the story, I think," Helen continues quietly, and Hermione doesn't interrupt, because she doesn't want to break her mother's reverie. "Queen Helen ran away from her daughter and only child, Hermione - and her husband, Menelaus. She ran away to Troy, across the sea, to live with Paris. But Menelaus couldn't stand it, and chased her across the sea to try and bring her back. He left Hermione behind, to become the ruler and keep the country safe while its soldiers and people abandoned it to go fight Troy." 

Helen flips the page, pausing, and Hermione looks up at her, wonderingly. Her mother meets her eyes squarely. 

"Helen named her daughter Hermione - it means "pillar queen." The kind of ruler to be depended on, to keep things going while all her family was across the sea. She couldn't control what they did, but she put everything into keeping the people she could safe. Strong. Brave. I think Helen knew when she gave her that name." 

Helen reaches out, pushes Hermione's unruly curls behind her ear, cups her face in both hands gently. "I wanted to name you Hermione because…somehow, I knew that you would have to be the strong one of the three of us. You were going to do things we could only dream of, and I knew you needed to be the kind of person with the strength to deal with it alone. Sweetheart, you're in a world where I can't follow you." 

There's an odd swirling sensation behind Hermione's eyes, and she realizes that this is where she would be crying, if she hadn't taken the Tearless Tonic. Her mother's eyes are oddly bright, and to cover for her own lack of tears, she reaches up and covers her mother's hands. 

"We'll tell your father about all this tonight, over dinner. And tomorrow, you're sending an owl or a Patronus or something to the Weasleys and telling them to take you in until term starts. Tell Ms. Weasley that I'll clean and operate on her entire family's teeth for life, or whatever else I can find to repay her." She holds up a finger. "No arguments. You may be of age in that world, but you're still under my roof." 

They kneel like that for a moment, letting the still of the evening wash over them in the dim attic. Soon, though, they hear the front door open, hear Dad's jolly voice wondering where everyone is. Helen calls out to him, and they struggle to their feet. 

As they brush off their clothing, Helen laughs suddenly, reaches out to grab an item, gleaming in the lamplight. 

"I'd forgotten about this," she said, examining it in the lemony glow. "Begged your father to buy it for me in the marketplace on our honeymoon, and look where it's ended up." 

She holds out a lilac beaded handbag for Hermione's examination, looking fairy-spun in its silver thread. "You know, that would look perfect with your dress for the wedding." She holds it out to her, a little reminder of her past. Hermione accepts it with all the reverence she can muster. 

"Thank you, Mum," she says. 

She examines the little beaded bag as they descend the stairs. An Extendable Charm? It would be perfect…and it would be one of the last items on her checklist.


	5. Chapter 5

Helen feels herself calm down as the evening progresses, like some giant balloon expanding inside her chest has been poked with a needle, and that everything inside can now relax. Hector greets her with a kiss, giving her a look with his eyes that says he's aware that she's been under stress.

Hector. Oh, how she loves him, and oh, how oblivious he can be to it all.

Hermione, behind her, walks up slowly to embrace her father. It's almost as if there's a bit of goodbye in her hug, Helen notices, but remembers that this is Hermione's last night at home before going to the Weasleys. She can't help but breathe a sigh of relief that Hermione is agreeing to her demand.

"Beef and barley soup, Dad," she says, muffled against Hector's shirt.

"And that's why I love it when you come home," he smiles down at her, and Hermione takes a moment before smiling back at him, and returning to the kitchen to attend to her soup. Feeling slightly dislocated, Helen takes down bowls from the cupboard, sets the table while Hermione heats the soup back up, slices the bread, and mixes a salad. She tries to imprint the image of her daughter on the inside of her eyelids, this last view of her before she goes off to safety.

She arranges the bowls and cutlery fussily on the table. Hector walks back in with a little snap in his step, checks to see that Hermione isn't looking, and slides a hand into the back pocket of her work trousers, goosing gently.

"How long till she leaves for the Weasley wedding?" he rumbles in her ear.

"Tonight, actually." The sentence trips off of Helen's tongue before she can stop it. Hector's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I'll let her tell you why."

Hector withdraws his hand as Hermione approaches, ladling out servings of soup in each bowl, going back to the kitchen to retrieve the bread and salad. Out of the corner of her eye, Helen watches Hector regarding his daughter with curiosity, trying to divine the reason of her forthcoming departure from the way in which she brought back a bottle of salad dressing and jar of olives.

But Hermione's face was carefully, pleasantly blank, seating herself at the dining table and reaching out to hold her parents' hands for the blessing. Helen felt the strength of their little circle - mother, father, child - as it had been for so many years, and as it felt so right to be.

They say the quick prayer of thanks, though Helen's thoughts are more on protection. Hector stands and begins ladling out the soup with little clinks in the ceramic dishes.

"So what's this I hear about you leaving for the Weasley house tomorrow, sweetie?" he presses, dishing up Hermione's soup. "Thought that little shindig wasn't for a few weeks."

Helen smiles softly, picks up her spoon. Subtlety has never been Hector's long suit. Hermione slides her eyes toward her mother for a moment, then lifts her own spoon in apparent unconcern.

"There are some tensions heating up in the Wizarding world. About people who are Muggleborn, like me, and people who are born from long lines of wizards and witches. Purebloods, they call themselves. But there are lots of nice pureblood families - like the Weasleys, for instance."

Pureblood. To Helen's ears, it sounds like some strange sanitization equipment for oral surgery.

"There's a difference?" Hector slowly swirls a chunk of bread around in the broth. "This is good, by the way."

"Thank you," Hermione replies softly, taking a sip. "And no, there's not a difference - it's just some stupid attempt to form a hierarchy. Anyway, there used to be fights over it, and Muggleborns - Mudblood is the derogatory term - are getting a bit nervous."

Lord. Helen had thought Muggle sounded bad.

"Nervous how?" Hector puts down his spoon, pushes his plate aside, fixing Hermione with an arresting stare. It's a mark of how much he cares for his daughter - Helen knows how hungry he is, and how much he loves his soup.

"Nervous because about fifteen or so years ago, there was a nasty war in the Wizarding world, and Muggleborns ended up suffering a lot at the hands of wizards who thought they were Purebloods. Some of the old tensions are coming back, and the Aurors have me on alert in case anything happens."

"Did something happen? Is that why you're headed over to the Weasley house? Would they attack you here?" Helen has rarely heard this taut note in her husband's voice. He is a gentle, genial dentist - who would move mountains for his family, she knows.

"No," Hermione smiles, taking a bite of her bread, runny with broth. "But Mom's nervous since I told her, so I'm headed there early. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were both in a defensive order for Muggleborns years before, so they'll know what signs to look for."

"Oh." Hector looks at Helen quickly, and she knows he is taking the temperature of her mood by her face. "Can we get you there tonight?"

Hermione laughs, and Helen watches with some fascination as her daughter easily dissembles before her father. It makes her uneasy to see how quickly Hermione achieves it, Hector relaxing just slightly about the shoulders, his fingers loosening on the tabletop.

"I still need to pack up," Hermione tells them. "I would also need to contact them to let them know that I'm coming - it would be about midnight before I apparated over there. Better just to wait until tomorrow." She sips delicately at her soup, and Helen sees that Hector has relaxed to the point where he follows her example and takes a spoonful of his own soup.

Hermione swallows and turns to Helen. "I sent the Patronus before I followed you downstairs. Mr. Weasley will send one back sometime tonight, probably."

Hector perks up. "We'll see the silver meerkat?" Hector. Such a little boy when it came to their daughter's world.

Hermione does not correct him, and that's telling in itself. "If I'm packing up in my room, then you probably won't - the Patronus goes right to the person it's sent to."

"Oh." Hector processes this for a few moments, and Helen can see the wheels in his mind turning. "Didn't you use to use owls?"

"They can be intercepted, Dad." Hermione says gently. "Someone who intercepted it would then know where I am."

This seems to hit Hector with the seriousness of the situation, and he nods. "That bad."

"Better to be safe rather than sorry," Hermione said, then brightened. "The only way that Muggleborns are in any real danger is if the Ministry is overthrown - and that's not going to happen. Scrimgeour's a strong leader, and there are lots of loyal Aurors at his side." She pauses. "Aurors are like police."

Hector pushes the crust of his bread around the bowl, soaking up the broth, deep in thought. He fixes Hermione with another hard look.

"Are there wizard and witch armies?"

Helen can't tell if Hermione is feigning the look of confusion. "Armies? No. We have our Aurors, and the Pureblood folks are kind of a radical group. But no, there are no standing armies there."

"Are there any radical groups on your side?" This was a question Helen had not thought to ask, and she looked over at Hermione quickly to gauge her reaction.

Hermione looked puzzled. "No, not that I'm aware of. There's the occasional comment about chucking the radicals into the ocean, but no organized defense, other than Aurors. Our defense is, rather, through communication. They're trying to get the message through at Hogwarts that blood and heritage doesn't make a difference in terms of your ability."

Hector looks pleased at this, and helps himself to another serving of soup. Helen looks searchingly at Hermione, who is slicing herself another chunk of bread, and can't discern anything different.

"So when you were talking, earlier, about fighting to defend your friends?" Helen asks quietly. Hermione smiles, though, unsettling her.

"I'd fight if my friends were cornered by the Pureblood radicals," she replies equably. "I fight by beating out all the other students at Hogwarts who think blood determines magical ability and who should have access to it. There's never going to be a place for me there if I don't fight for one now."

Helen had never thought of this before.

"There's always a place for you here," she says quietly.

Hermione turns and covers Helen's hands with her own, looking fixedly at their entwined fingers.

"Oh, Mum," she says. "I know. I know." Her long curls cover her face, and Helen can't see her eyes. When she does look up, though, Hermione's eyes are dry.

"So then!" Hector interrupts their moment. "If this is going to be your last night here this summer, we might as well make an evening of it." He pushes his soup bowl forward. "Hermione, what do you say? Storm's over, we could take the scenic route and walk to the Dairy Bar."

It's a family tradition that's somehow escaped them this summer - Hermione ordering the blueberry ice cream with dark chocolate chips, turning her lips a shade of frostbite, while Hector and Helen indulged and divided a banana split.

She's about to catch Hermione's eye in glee, but her daughter's already trying to catch hers. Helen takes a split second to judge the mute appeal in them - Mom, help me! She realizes why - Hermione doesn't want to risk the extended exposure, putting her parents at risk in the open.

"Oh, Hector, didn't I tell you?" she said. "The Dairy Bar's been down off and on for renovations this summer."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Hermione relax infinitesimally. "But I've got a frozen blueberry pie that I made for Hermione's welcome home - we never got around to eating it, did we? Well, we can have it now."

They all get up and stretch, a prelude to clearing away the dishes. Hermione mirrors her mother's backbone-cracking stretch, but then bends forward, catching her in a fast and firm hug, a pressure that hasn't changed since Hermione was four years old and leaving home for the first time to go to school.

"Thank you," she whispers into Helen's hair. As she tries to slip away, she stops her and catches Hermione's face in her hands, just looking at her, Helen's beautiful, talented, brilliant, magical daughter.

Later on, stuffed with blueberry pie and ice cream, in Hector's case, they turn on the House of Commons in order to snipe at the telly. Hermione begs off in order to get packing and to wait for Arthur Weasley's Patronus.

Helen can't quite understand why she feels so optimistic about things - surely no mother should feel this way? But it's Hermione - and she's going to a safe house. She's going to be safe - far safer than she would be here, in any case - so why not feel optimistic, when she's cuddled next to her husband, warm in her house, daughter at home, and all the bad feelings and suspicions between them finally ironed out?

Behind her, there's the merest whisper of sound. She almost doesn't catch it over the sound of members of the House of Commons shouting on the telly, but it's there.

" _Obliviate_."

* * *

It's the best day of Monica Wendell's life. The house is sold, the practice is sold, and they're on their way to Australia.

"It's the ex-pat life for us, darling," says Ted, smiling as the movers cart boxes of their belongings out the front door. "Not too much longer."

Their house is beautiful - modest, within their means - but not far from the sea, either. Monica can wake up to the salt breeze on her face, practice dentistry with her husband during the day, and work on her Aboriginal anthropology studies at night.

They never had a child - it was one of Monica's dreams to feel a baby kick inside her, to raise a child up in the world, to have someone to call her "Mum." But that's all right - Monica has other dreams, too. And now they're about to get one fulfilled.

They work back through the rooms that have been cleared by the movers, getting ready to clean up after them. Ted spots a Polaroid photo in the attic, face-down on the floor, picks it up to show her. It's a grade school backdrop - something with London Bridge - the type of thing you'd expect to see on a Class Picture Day. But there's no child sitting in the stool.

It strikes a note of disquiet in her - she can't remember this photo.

Ted shakes his head. "Probably something that slipped in by accident. Have you been lurking through junk shops again?"

"Not for blank photos," she replies. "Just for tea sets, you know that."

Ted shrugs, tosses the photo into a waste bin.

They step out for a breath of air, because it feels so strange to just be sitting there, watching others work. At the front gate, they lean against it, behind the oddly torn-up rosebush. Something niggles in Monica's mind, but she dismisses it just as quickly.

This place is full of memories - after all, they've spent fifteen years here. It's only to be expected that some memories would start nipping at their heels as they prepared to walk out the door.

"Do you know her?" Ted asks, jerking his chin at the young woman watching the movers. "She's just been like that for the past few minutes."

Monica squints at the slender figure, a pretty girl with masses of curling brunette hair spilling to her waist, and an enormous ginger cat with a squashed face perching on her shoulders. She's familiar in a way that Monica can't quite place – like the daughter of a long-absent friend.

"I don't recognize her as one of the neighbors' daughters. Maybe one of the daughters of the couple that's moving in?" she replied.

"Hmmm. Or maybe she's casing the load to steal later," Ted looks again, but then his itchy hand returns to his Pacific Ocean seashell guide. Helen snorts - he'll be a beachcomber before he knows it, and all their patients will complain about his gritty hands beneath the latex gloves.

Having nothing really else to do, Monica straightens and walks over to the girl, pacing softly across the grass. The girl, concentrating on the movers, doesn't see her until Helen is only a few feet away, then gives a great start.

"It's all right," Monica says, hands up in a placating gesture. "Just saw you watching and wondered if you were one of the girls moving in here later on."

The girl makes an odd choking sound, but then her cat rubs its head against her, and she seems to recall herself.

"No, I'm…I'm moving myself, in a few days, and I've never moved before," she says, in a strangled voice. "I was just standing here, and trying to let reality sink in."

"Ah," replies Monica, taking note of the girl's accent and finding that it mirrors her own. "Beautiful cat. He's so well-behaved, too, to stay on your shoulders."

Weirdly enough, the cat looks up at that, regarding her with wide yellow eyes, almost as if it knew it was being spoken about. The girl notices, raises a hand to stroke the cat's head.

"Crookshanks," she says quietly, and the cat meows softly, rubbing its head against hers again. "He is an exceptional creature."

There's an awkward pause, then the girl speaks again. "Was it hard - making the decision to move? Do you think you'll miss it here?"

"Surprisingly, no," Monica tells her, smiling kindly. "My husband and I always wanted to go to Australia, and now we're just going to get up and do it. Sometimes you've just got to reach down inside yourself and find that courage to take the big leap. You'll be leaving things behind, but just think of what you'll gain."

She doesn't understand why, but she wants this girl to smile at her. Wants to find a way to make her cheerful again. She looks about as lost as a girl can be.

"That's true," says the girl.

Monica sticks out a friendly hand. "My name's Monica."

The girl pauses, and takes it in her own warm grasp. "Perdita."

"Perdita?" Monica looks at her in pleased surprise. "Did your parents name you for "The Winter's Tale"?"

The girl, young Perdita, turns a face to Helen that looks like she wants to cry but can't. "One of them did."

"Ah." Must be a death in the family - perhaps one of her parents?

They stand for a second, shifting weight, trying not to feel awkward. Perdita breaks it first.

"Thank you," she says, smiling up at her. "You give good advice, you know."

"I like to think so," Monica says back, grinning.

"Good luck in Australia," Perdita calls, already retreating.

Monica smiles to herself, mind already back on the beach, turning away from the sad girl with the orange cat on her shoulders.


End file.
